


Licked

by wings128



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings128/pseuds/wings128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ummm…He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…??</p>
            </blockquote>





	Licked

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an LJ writing meme that gives you five words starting with a letter you choose, and you write a drabble/fic that includes them.
> 
> My words were chosen by shanachie_quill and were: Jumper, Jackpot, Jeans, Juniper, and Jersey (not the state)

John’s wandering, his thoughts slurred by the easy-drinking alcohol served during the Bok*ri Harvest Feast in the village they left. When _was_ that exactly? He hopes they’re headed in the right direction and that the **Jumper** isn’t on the other side of the village. Ronon appears unaffected, walking beside him with an almost elegant ground-eating stride that John envies while his own booted feet seem to hone in on every stone, dip and rough edge. His head’s pounding now and he’s so not going to puke, he’d never live it down – Ronon wouldn’t let him. 

The Jumper’s metallic hull gives off a muted sheen in the peaceful glow of this planet’s three moons and the tightness in John’s chest loosens suddenly, making him swallow a relieved breath. He’d really thought they were on the wrong heading. 

Ronon turns his head, watches him out the corner of eyes so warm their irises remind John of rich milk chocolate. Kind eyes that are, at the moment, filled with a knowing amusement that tugs at the corner of a full-lipped mouth partially hidden by his goatee. John scowls, even as his own patented smirk ignites the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. He’s not conscious of the effect the combination has on Ronon; or maybe he is because there’s a warmth growing deep in his belly, stirring his already muddled senses into the familiar tight ball of want he’s carried for the past two years. The one John has no intention of ever acting on, no matter how much…

He tilts his head skyward to break from the shared need not-so-hidden in the Satedan warrior’s expression. Not the best idea, John admits when he stumbles and catches himself by grasping Ronon’s bicep. It feels good, really good, under his callused palm. Bare, chilled, smooth skin sleek over warmth of hard ready muscle and John swallows thickly, choking down the desire to dig his fingers in, to feel the strength. It feels like a lifetime before he can bring himself to recall his hand and it doesn’t retreat without his thumb sweeping rebelliously over that sweet curve. 

Ronon’s looking at him, knows what’s in John’s head right now, but he won’t act, won’t take the first step across the void that divides them, that keeps them from having what they both want. John has no name for this thing, but he knows it grows, deepens, strengthens with every breath they take and soon there’ll be no denying it. 

Yearning and fear twist painfully tight in his chest as his heart struggles to beat normally. He focuses his gaze back on the deep indigo of the night sky, forces his lungs to breathe deep in the hopes of clearing the heated fog from his brain; it’s nothing like Earth’s. Here it’s a mind-blowing array of stars scattered on ink, the orange-blue gases of the nearest moon seem close enough to touch, to swirl his fingers through. John decides he wants to watch; he never gets to do that anymore, fly amongst them, yes, but never just watch. 

They’d reached the Jumper a while back and John didn’t realise, didn’t notice that he’d stopped his wandering in favour of stargazing. Ronon is standing motionless beside him, patient as the universe itself. John knows this man will wait forever. 

“Not yet,” he whispers huskily, his eyes wide as they trace the arc of a meteor, unaware of how the light dances in them; how it hypnotises the man at his side and tethers Ronon to him.

John senses Ronon’s agreement and knows nights spent in the close confines of the Jumper aren’t on Ronon’s list of good times. He’s perhaps even less eager than John is to trade the sky’s welcoming expanse for a thin bed roll and cold metallic silence. So he clumsily tugs down on Ronon's sleeve, jerks his head to signal they should lie down. It’s warm, only a hint of chill in the still air, they can sleep here; it’s more open than John would normally allow and his hackles shiver at the thought of being so exposed, but the lush nearly-knee-high grass will alert Ronon if not both of them. 

It's quiet and peaceful, nothing but the chirrup of nocturnal insects. They lie less than a foot apart, flattening the grass around them like a crop circle. Every inch of John is aware of every inch of Ronon. The heat radiating out to envelop John, the rustle of linen and creak of leather as Ronon shifts and settles deeper into the earth. John sweeps his eyes closed, long delicate lashes brushing his cheeks, breathes for a minute as he attempts to control his body.

“Here,” Ronon growls, husky from being silent so long, or at least that’s what John tells himself.

John looks up at Ronon, holds those fucking beautiful eyes with his own and grasps both the warmth of long fingers and the coolness of brushed alien metal. He can hear liquid slosh as he raises the flask, held in their joined hands, to his pouted lips and swigs slowly, dragging out the moment. 

"Tastes like gin," he gasps on the burn of the liquor’s fire trail.

"Gin?" Ronon queries disinterestedly and lowers his mouth to clumsily cover John's.

Oh yeah, he’s drunk, drunk on the taste of Ronon’s mouth. It’s warm and close and impatient with need too long denied; a need John shares. It feels like he’s hit the **jackpot** as their tongues slide over each other and John’s trying _really_ hard to remember why this _isn’t_ the best fucking idea Ronon’s ever had.

"Mmmm, yeah," he murmurs as Ronon releases his panting mouth and nips hungrily along the underside of his jaw. "Earth spirit, made...from... **juniper**..." He babbles, losing his train of thought in the scrape of beard that sparks his nerves and makes him arch his neck, giving those lips more access.

Ronon growls a warning and John gets it. Who cares where it comes from or what it tastes like, nothing tastes as good as the spot behind Ronon’s ear, the column of his throat or the dip where it meets his shoulder and John is starving. 

He curves his palms around Ronon's hips and slides the fabric of his tunic slowly up, relishing the contrast between rough scratchy linen and warm smooth shivery skin that seems to press up into his touch. But John doesn’t get to touch for long. Ronon’s wresting John’s hands from his back, pinning both his wrists to the hard-packed ground above his head. He growls in frustration, he wants to touch, has wanted to touch - forever. John struggles and feels the one-handed grip tighten, feels the bite of those long golden fingers press into the pale skin of his inner wrists; shudders with scorching lust that’s burning him alive.

Ronon’s chuckling deep in his chest, he’s fucking laughing at John’s pathetic attempts to get free and that just cranks John’s need higher. “Fuck!”

Ronon’s _yes, John_ is muffled by the cotton-covered collarbone he sets his teeth nibbling along and John is lost. He spreads his thighs, letting Ronon fall in tight and heavy. He lifts his hips, circling invitingly, grinding his dick against the deliciously hard shaft of the guy he's waited a lifetime to find.

“Fuck!” Ronon’s curse feeds all kinds of dirty images into John’s sex-buzzed brain as those lips plunder his mouth again, exploring every moist corner, tasting each moan that John’s unable, unwilling to hold back.

Ronon’s shunting forward, powerful hips grinding their cocks against denim and leather. It’s painful in that don’t-fucking-stop way. They’re still fully clothed, shirts hiked up and John feels the flex of Ronon’s abs against his own, feels the slick of sweat on skin he craves to touch. Ronon’s rhythm is faltering, losing its force as he climbs. John takes up the beat, they have each other’s back in everything, he throws his thighs over Ronon’s bare hips, feels the friction of denim on smooth skin exposed where leather has slipped, squeezes to pull Ronon in tight. His cock screams with ecstasy at being so close, so tightly pressed into Ronon’s; there’s no room to move, so John just squeezes harder. It’s enough, it’s the final trigger, and Ronon’s arching over him, his grip numbing John’s hands as he comes; hips twisting and flexing, cock shuddering against John’s, wet seeping through fabric.

‘Oh, fuck, he’s coming! Damn, is he coming,’ there’s nowhere to move, Ronon’s got him pinned and it’s the best damn feeling in two galaxies, more. He’s moaning his lover’s name into the night, arching his back, mirroring the curve of Ronon’s chest, pressing his head into the crushed grass. Its scent blends with that of his lover, their sweat and their come, fills his head, swirls with disbelief and the falling of coming down. The air’s heated with Ronon’s shuddery gasps as, finally, John’s hands are freed. He ignores the sting of returning feeling, yanks on dreads to pull that fucking mouth closer and takes control of their afterglow; gratefully praises with his mouth and tongue and teeth in slow, sleepy, unchallenged exploration. 

Ronon’s hips are still giving little thrusts as he lowers his torso over John, crushing him in the best way ever and falling into John’s kisses. He groans against John’s ear, his breath warm and tingly on sensitive skin when John lowers his hands and yanks those hips impossibly tighter. He doesn’t ever want to move, this is perfect, better than all his fantasies rolled into one. He really is drunk and he’s fighting to stay awake, they’re exposed. John chuckles at the thought and feels Ronon shift half off him, a thigh sliding between his, an arm heavy and solid, and draping across his hips as its hand splays up his flank.

“Sleep, John.” The sound of his name in Ronon’s deep rumble thrums through his bones and makes him shiver. Sleep sounds good, sleep with Ronon in his arms sounds…

~*~

Ronon’s heavy with sleep against his side and warm breath’s puffing against his pounding temple. God, that stuff has a hellova kick, the sun’s knifing him through his closed eyelids, but that’s okay, ‘cause he wasn’t planning on ever opening them again anyway. It not like he needs to watch where he’s flying, he’ll tell the Jumper he wants to go to Atlantis and it’ll take them there; won’t it? John’s seriously considering a test flight to prove his hypothesis when a warm wet tongue licks up his forehead and into his hair!

“Uuughhh! Ronon!”

John’s eyes are open now and damn, he knew it! Hurts like a bitch and his **jeans** are glued to things they shouldn’t be glued to, ever!

Ronon’s bolt upright, blaster primed and pointed at whatever threat John’s discovered, hostile eyes showing no sign of weakness in their brown depths. John thinks he’s never seen anything so hot in all his life. But the only impending threat is to John’s reputation, once McKay finds out he fell asleep in a field only to be licked awake by a stag-horned **Jersey** cow searching for her breakfast!

John’s staring at Ronon, watching his kiss-swollen lips break into a grin. “No! Don’t even _think_ about it!”

Daisy gets in another lick while John’s focused on the way Ronon’s eyes sparkle as deep bass chuckles take the big guy over. “It’s the gel.”

John lunges into Ronon, lands in his lap and shoves him back into the flattened grass of their bed, holds him there with hands curved over hard pecs. “I don’t use gel.”

The laughter is still there in Ronon’s eyes only now it’s brewing into something that makes John lean down, makes him aware of what’s prodding his ass. His lips are grazing Ronon’s parted ones; he feels warm panting breath cooling on his cheek as Ronon cups his ass in those huge hands and grinds John down. 

Daisy licks up the back of his neck, up into his hair and off the top of his head, leaving random swirls of cow slobber in his already-mussed soft black hair. 

“Uuuuggghhh!” He leaps out of Ronon’s arms and stands there swaying as his hung-over brain tries to cope with the sudden change in altitude. “Let’s go!”

“Suits you,” Ronon rumbles as he stands, kisses him till John needs to lean in to keep his feet. “Seems I’m not the only one who wants to lick you.”

John’s ignoring the way his body responds to Ronon, as best he can, in favour of regaining his dignity. “This never happened!”

Ronon’s humour vanishes like smoke in the wind in the same instant John realises what he’s said. There’s no way he’s losing Ronon over this, natural cowlicks haven’t defeated him, these ones sure as hell won’t either! 

“No! Not that, this!” He waves his hands in bewildered panic at the cream and caramel painted cow, who’s nosing ever closer to the neckline of John’s black tee.

Ronon’s grin is back, taunting John as he leaps out of Daisy’s reach and into the protective circle of Ronon’s arms. “Your oath, this is just between us.”

John allows Ronon to turn his face with an insistent palm, bringing their mouths together, so that when he speaks John feels Ronon’s lips graze against his own. “On my honour, John Sheppard, this shall remain between only us .”

John shudders, leans closer into Ronon’s long lean body. His lover’s words so powerful they take his breath; leave a warmth in his chest that makes him feel like he’s falling in on himself, because John knows Ronon’s words have nothing to do with cowlicks – natural or otherwise.


End file.
